Bridget didn’t start out scary.  Okay, that’s not completely true.  When I first spotted her across a crowded courtyard bar, she looked devoid of human color and potentially undead.  But I ignore first impressions in trade for self-created uplifting fantasy.  I opt to be disappointed by illusions first, than gaze upon realities disappointments in retrospect.


We met at a bar, not unusual considering I am total homo who happens to have spent many nighttime hours in dark places with throbbing sounds.  Yes, like the womb, if the womb happened to belong to a smoking alcoholic.  Contrary to popular belief, not many girls come after me, unless you want to count straight girls.  But then, no one wants to count straight girls.  They increase if you try to count them and pretty soon you’re the leader of a small province, where abuse of power lies just around the bend.


I never took it personally that lesbians rarely hit on me.  I chalked it up to the fact that I was assertive.  My German friend Wolf explained it to me this way, “No one approaches you because they can sense you are a predator.  You have to hunt for your prey.  If your prey does not run from you, you will not chase it, you will not kill it, and you certainly won’t want to eat it.”  So I had to swoop on Bridget like the vampire that she was, if I ever intended to see what she looked like beneath all that foreboding and dread.


Bridget was tall and thin like a bookmark for some gigantic book you wish you never removed from the shelf.  She had a wounded look that made me want to take her home and undress her wounds, before slowly dressing them again.  I watched her for a while before approaching.  She had beautiful hand gestures that appeared to be beckoning me.  The film Nosferatu flashed in my mind and then flickered out.


Almost everything about her sent Morse Code to my misfiring neurons translating to the word SEX.  If my neurons had been firing properly they would have surely corrected this spelling as DEATH.  She would kill me later.


So what?

She was stunningly gorgeous, and sexy.

I have been trapped in the “attraction to physical appearance above all else,” self-serve Dante’s-Inferno-pit before, and it’s a hell that delivers its own special set of punishments.  You fall for someone’s looks because you think their physical appearance will improve your looks or status and make you feel worthwhile as a human being, for once.  But if you choose a mate because her eggshell could win awards on Easter then you get one or all of the prizes behind door number one:

A) A life long obsession for anyone who resembles “the girl” which will continue long after the weeklong affair has ended.

B) A relationship with someone who never lives up to your expectations because that’s all she was molded from in the first place.

C) Twenty-three thousand dollars in credit card debt.

D) Two insatiable bunnies.

E) A pair of Oliver Peoples with one missing screw.

F) A broken heart that in actuality is not remotely related to the heart.  It is the impact felt from the demolition of your illusions.

G) You will feel worse about yourself when they leave because you were at a deficit when you began.

H) Loss of false identity, SEE all of the above.


When first we spoke, we sensed in each other a Charles Bukowskiesque quality that would catapult us into a future of dive bars, parked cars, dark alleys and expensive cigars (SEE Pot).


She began to imply with her body undulations that dancing might be an appropriate solution to our condition.  So I asked.  She said, “Sure I’ll dance with you, but I will not look at you, or pay any attention to you while we dance.”

I said, “Cool.”  I’ve always had a fondness for “aloof,” as long as I’m not left alone with her on a roof.


After dancing she returned to her friends, one of whom was sucking eagerly at the back of her neck, ears and when she finally turned around, her lips.  I am usually a pretty fast kitty even when dropped from a tall building, so I interpreted her behavior to mean she had, if not a girlfriend, a very affectionate group of friends.  I took my leave, considering it had already been laid out like a red carpet.


She gave me her E-mail address before I left.  Actually, she gave it to me twice.  I took this as a sign that she had a stutter, but was too shy to express it verbally.  I wrote to her the next morning, but she didn’t write back.  I figured her friend with the mouth had settled on a better venue.


That night I went out to another in a long line of clubs I’d been dating.  This one was playing a little hard to get.  It was a roving club.  I had to call a hotline to find out where to meet it.  I was pushing my luck by going scamming while almost completely voiceless with laryngitis.  The first few hundred girls I tried to communicate with found my lack of voice, if not endearing, a welcome relief.


By the time I ran into Bridget, my vocal capacity was limited to a light wheezing through my left nostril.  Fortunately, I had a close friend by my side that had volunteered to interpret for me.  Unfortunately, while I wasn’t talking, most assumed I could not hear either so I was excluded from the conversation.  She and my friend spoke with the expressive fervor of two Italians trying to agree on a restaurant for twenty minutes, after which Bridget gave me a hug and split.  I shook my friend down for what they had discussed in my behalf.


My friend said, “Ah, she’s no good for you.  That chicks as crazy as a dray of squirrels in a bucket of Grape Nuts.”


That was enough for me.  I hooked up with her the next night.


We dated for five months before Bridget tossed me off the rooftop to the speeding cars below.  I tried to break-up with her before but she showed up on my doorstep in an overcoat and nothing underneath which traditionally voids a break-up.  When she finally broke it off with me, it made a much stronger statement. I don’t own an overcoat.



Losing Bridget was an integral part of finding myself and for that I will always be grateful.  But that’s just what people expect you to say, because it’s mature and self-actualized.   It took me years to feel that way.  The truth is parting from a dysfunctional relationship is often much more devastating and pathetic than the healthy ones.  Troubled, complicated people are often highly intelligent and captivating, otherwise they would end up alone and they don’t roll that way.  Being solitary magnifies the “crazy” and makes being crazy unsavory and intolerable.  ”Crazy” craves company.


Bridget inadvertently snared me in the Crazy like a heroin-dipped fishhook.  Yes, our relationship only lasted a minuscule duration in normal time standards but the speed in which we traveled together changed our own space-time continuum, so after we parted, the detox from our relationship multiplied exponentially.  I was messed up by that relationship long enough to prove I was just as crazy as she was.  Actually, I’m probably a bit crazier.  I wrote a story about it.